


pushed to the limits

by FatePissOrder (poludeuces)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Omorashi, Other, Piss, Watersports, gordolf does show up and rip gordolf, no beta we die like men, this is a piss fanfic if you do not like piss do not read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29032260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poludeuces/pseuds/FatePissOrder
Summary: Sherlock Holmes fights the urge to go.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	pushed to the limits

**Author's Note:**

> hello. this is an omorashi/piss fanfic. if you do not like that, then i would recommend not reading this one  
> content warnings:  
> \- omorashi  
> \- description of pissing  
> \- characters becoming turned on due to pissing  
> \- masturbating due to pissing
> 
> sherlock's body has been kept purposefully vague cause trans sherlock good!

Sherlock had always been known to push his body’s limits.

“A servant does not need sleep,” he would say, or, “I do not require food today.” Ritsuka had wondered how he could survive off of mana alone - did he not have the desire to eat, like all other servants? 

Perhaps that was the reason they had asked them to accompany them for morning tea.

It was a rather nice way to start the morning. Just him and his master in their room, with two cups of tea while Sherlock went over some papers Jekyll had dropped over the night before. It almost reminded him of his past life and the early mornings before the chase, sharing a breakfast table with Watson when his partner would wake up early.

But the conversation had been much more pleasant with his partner.

“Are you going to eat anything?” Ritsuka asks him, half-way through their blueberry scone.

Watson was known to prod like any good doctor, but his master’s insistence despite the facts was becoming a tad bit annoying. 

Sherlock looks up from his papers and raises an eyebrow. His eyes flutter down to his plate - his scone remains untouched. 

“I asked EMIYA to bake those fresh this morning,” Ritsuka reminded him, “And that is some of Li Shuwen’s best tea.”

Sherlock makes an effort, pulling a piece of the scone and popping it into his mouth. It’s good - a little dry, perhaps, but perfect for dunking in tea. The brew itself is a strong black tea with some notes of fruitiness to pair with the blueberry of the scones. Ritsuka’s effort does not go unnoticed by Sherlock, it is kind of his master to splurge him like so, but…

He gracefully takes another sip from his tea, resting it on his knee while he returns to looking at his papers. “The tea is nice.” His eyes lift over his papers to stare at Ritsuka, “You could try without the excess of sugar and milk in yours.”

Ritsuka rolls their eyes and sighs, “And you could try eating more.”

“Mana acts as a suitable replacement for food,” Sherlock reminds them.

“Or sleeping.”

Sherlock chuckles, “Well, for that there’s other methods.”

Ritsuka narrows their eyes. “I don’t agree with those ‘methods’ either.” They play with their spoon in their cup, a soft clinking echoing throughout their empty room. “I swear, you’re going to be a bad influence on the children.”

That elicits a laugh from Sherlock, who downs the rest of his tea before pouring another cup for himself. “You could have the same conversation with those who frequent the smoking room, or the demons or serial killers that haunt these halls.” He smirks as he brings the cup back up to his lips, “I am but a simple detective.” He takes another sip.

Ritsuka sighs and rests their plate on their lap, their fingers pulling at their scone, thumbs playing with the crumbs. “A half-awake detective is not useful.”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and looks away, “And yet you disagree with my methods! I suppose there is no way to settle this, we are at a standstill.”

They’re about to scream at him when the door opens. Mashu’s head pops through.

“Mister Holmes, sir?” Her fingers tap against the doorframe, her eyes darting in between the two of them, “da Vinci is asking for you.”

Sherlock sighed and stood up, quickly finishing his second cup of tea. It was a good brew - no need to waste a single drop! He politely excused himself from Ritsuka’s room, their face still conveying their anger, before heading towards her office.

He was stopped by Jack and Nursery Rhyme asking for help finding an imaginary friend. That had eaten up two hours of his time as he routinely explained that he could not find imaginary friends - something that the two girls refused to comprehend. They stalked the halls, and the way they interrogated other servants reminded him of his time with the Baker Street Irregulars. 

“Would you like to come for a tea party then?” Nursery Rhyme pulls on his coat to try and pull him towards the author’s writing room. 

At the idea of drinking more, Sherlock can feel his bladder shudder. No, this wasted time had made the tea travel through his system. It would be best if he went to the bathroom sooner than later. 

(He cannot imagine telling the kids that, however. )

Sherlock is finally able to convince them to let him go by suggesting that maybe Jekyll might know of their friend’s whereabouts.

(He feels a little bad when the two girls jump onto his back and demand answers. A little.)

When he was free of that, Gordolf had appeared suddenly and dragged him to the kitchen to sample some of his food. 

“Is there no one else who can test these out for you?” Sherlock asked. Gordolf rubbed the back of his head and mumbled off a string of excuses.

Thankfully, he had sweetened the deal with an expensive bottle of wine that paired deliciously with the ribe-eye steak. While wine was not something he often dabbled in, nothing hurt if done only once and awhile. And the drink made the taste stand out - the richness of the wine paired well with the cut of the steak. The emphasis on the coupling told Sherlock a lot about the chef - a man whose priorities at the end of the world included meats and wines was an interesting individual indeed.

Unfortunately for him, the combination of the robust red and the morning’s tea had quickly sped through his system. He sat on the barstool with his leg crossed over the other - nothing too suspicious, his chin resting on his palm as he half-listened to Gordolf’s rambling about cooking.

The blonde pulled up a stool to sit in front of Sherlock. His half of the steak already complete, he grabbed the bottle and poured more in both glasses. Such an expensive bottle, it would be disrespectful not to drink, despite the way his cheeks begin to warm up due to the alcohol. He had a high poison resistance, but a good red and not a lot of food affected the body.

“You should stop upsetting Ritsuka,” Gordolf tells him, snapping his thoughts away.

He does not look at the servant, instead at his cup, watching as the red swirls around like blood. There is a film that sticks to the sides of the glass before it is caught by the wave of surging wine again. It threatens to escape its confines but Gordolf is careful and talented in some things - cooking, of course, and spinning wine in a glass. He knows how to catch flying food in a pan so it does not fall to the ground, and he knows how to swirl wine in a way that would make a certain Golden King impressed. 

The movement makes his bladder scream. Holmes crosses his legs tighter.

“I will try to remember,” Sherlock smiles. His mind was an attic and he only kept what was necessary in it. The director already knew he could not promise to remember everything. Especially things that were not applicable to detective work.

Gordolf bites his cheek and points his glass at him, “You’re just stressing them out by speaking in tongues and slinking away.”

“There are things that would stress them out more if I shared them,” Sherlock replies and takes a small sip of the red. He can see Gordolf’s scowl from the rim of the glass. 

Sherlock avoids his gaze by drinking more. It makes his bladder protest. He shifts his legs so instead of being crossed they simply squeeze together. He drops his hand from his chin and places it on his thigh, his fingers dipping under the strap on his leg to distract himself. It takes as much effort to keep the additional tightness than it is to keep himself on the stool, and to do it to make it look easy - well, it would require a detective’s skill set.

He sets the glass down and slides it on the table. Gordolf finishes his own with a hearty swig and places it next to Sherlock’s cup, the remaining red starting to stain. “And you refuse to share anything with your director.”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and smiles, “While I must admit you do remind me of my Dr. Watson, especially in the ways you dote over Ritsuka and my health like you are under our employment, I doubt you plan to record my methods.” His finger runs around the rim, “If I wished for more romanticism of my work, I have my pickings of talented authors.”

He would still need to do some catching up if he were to be on the same level as his dear Watson, especially with regards to picking out clues. But that helped him in this situation. He is unsure if his partner would have been able to pick out his growing need. Perhaps he would have figured out that he was uncomfortable, or something was off. Sherlock fights back the smirk that threatens to pull at his lips.

Gordolf is not a man of anger but rather frustration. He rolls his eyes and gestures to the bottle, “You should finish that - it’s already breathed enough, and if I drink more tonight I’ll have trouble sleeping.”

There’s a solid glass’ worth of wine remaining. His bladder is full already with the morning’s tea and the cups of red. Any more would be pushing against the floodgates that already threatened to open. He already had to play with his straps to keep himself from holding onto his crotch. 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to finish it myself, either,” Sherlock admits, hoping that Gordolf’s mind will jump to drunkenness.

Gordolf raises an eyebrow as he nudges the bottle closer with his finger. “No need to be selfless, it’s a good year, go, finish it,” he pushes. Through the dark colour of the glass, Sherlock can see the wine slosh up the sides. His fingertips press into his thigh just hard enough to distract himself from his bladder with a dull pain.

“I’m not being selfless, I assure you,” Sherlock replies with a tight smile, cocking his head to the side. “I still have work to do this evening, I would prefer to have my brain screwed on right.”

The blonde laughs and reaches over to grab the bottle. In one practiced motion, he pours the rest of the contents out. “Come on, Holmes, you’ve never been one to care about your ‘mind being screwed on right!’ No, just today Ritsuka complained to me about your drug use - come, drink up!”

All Sherlock can do is look at the stream of crimson as it flows from the lip and swirls into his glass. It’s dazzling. He swallows hard as it crashes in and catches along the sides like the sea breaking against rocks, while at the center it collects like a tidal pool. It ripples and spreads, and Sherlock’s mind jumps to a toilet bowl swishing.

His hands dip in between his thighs, gripping hard. His pinky brushes past his crotch and he lets out the smallest sigh. God, how he wished he could relieve himself, and flush the toilet all satisfied, watching as it took away his filth.

Sherlock’s eyes land on the lip of the bottle, stuck on the remaining droplets that fall into the glass. Now empty, Gordolf sets it down with a sharp ‘click’, as he starts cleaning things up.

“Go ahead,” he says, nodding at the cup.

Sherlock knows that he should lift his hands up from his thighs - the more he lingers, the more Gordolf will notice. But the squeezing from his legs on his crotch alone is not enough, and he brings his lips into his mouth.

He shouldn’t be in this position. If he hadn’t been swept off of his feet at the prospect of good food, he wouldn’t have been sitting on a stool on the verge of pissing his pants. This was below him - he was not some berserker, unable to control himself. He had successfully wormed himself out of situations before, this one would be no different.

Carefully, he draws one hand up from in between his thighs, squeezing them as much as he can to try and make up for the lack of pressure. He fights back the whine at the back of his throat that threatens to escape. His fingers slide to the base of the glass, bringing it closer to the edge of the counter. He draws his lips back into his mouth as he watches the wine wiggle with its movements.

Gordolf places the pan in the sink and turns on the tap. 

Maybe he actually did know and was getting back at him. He shouldn’t underestimate his new Watson.

Sherlock weighed his options. There weren’t many. 

If he didn’t care about his image, he could run from the room to the nearest washroom. Thankfully, there was one close to the mess hall. But it was always extremely popular as a central hub. Anyone would see The Sherlock Holmes running in, hands on his crotch, desperately trying to keep from wetting himself. He could perhaps blame it on a science experiment gone wrong, or an adverse reaction to drugs, but even trying to come up with possible excuses made his head hurt.

And he did have an image to hold up. Nevermind the fact that if he bolted out of the room, he would confuse Gordolf at best, offend him at worst. Even if he returned relieved and drank the rest of the cup down, there would still be questions to be answered and excuses to give.

His fingers drum at the base of the glass. His hips felt heavy.

He would need to come up with an answer. Or soon, he would piss himself.

Gordolf shut the tap off and cocked an eyebrow, “You don’t have to drink it, if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock swallows hard and shakes his head, “No, no, it’s as you say - it has breathed enough, it would be a shame to pour it back into the bottle.” Delicately his fingers slip around the neck and he brings the cup up to his mouth.

His bladder screams at him. He was already having difficulty not relieving right then and there. It’s full and protesting, demanding to go. 

He pushes those thoughts away and in one big swig, he downs the full glass.

“There you go!” Gordolf says with a laugh, switching the tap on again to scrub at the pan. 

Sherlock leans back, resting his hand on his stomach, feeling his inflated bladder press jut out. The sound of the tap, strong and rushing, is overwhelming, reminding him of a waterfall. His bladder is now past bursting. He’s pushed his body too much, held for too long, as the wine and the tea mix into a perfect concotion to make him spill.

He needed to go. 

Now.

Sherlock could easily push Gordolf out of the way, lift himself up, and piss in the sink. There was something almost perverse in it - would Gordolf scream out in terror? Would he laugh or hit him for such sin? He might even thank him for helping clean the dishes…

The kitchen had enough places to relieve himself in, glasses and mugs and containers of all sorts, but he didn’t cook nearly enough to know where any of those things were. In all likelihood, he would end up pissing himself while trying to find one.

He would have to walk out. 

“Thank you so much for such a delightful meal,” Sherlock says as he gets up, his fingernails digging into his palms as he keeps himself from holding onto his crotch. When he has to spread his thighs to get off from the stool, he is barely able to hold on. “I will have to bring some of my whiskey next time to pay you back.” 

Gordolf turns off the tap, and shakes his hands dry, Sherlock’s eyes stuck on the droplets as they fly wherever they please. He tries not to think of just pulling his pants down and going, allowing his piss to do the same…

“Any time! I hope my company is not too boring for you, though,” Gordolf smiles at Sherlock’s sudden shock. “I could see you squirming in your chair the whole time.”

Had he noticed? The shock is enough to make Sherlock’s mind drift from the current problem at hand.

A short spurt escapes and he shoots his hand down to catch himself. It’s sweet, deliciously so, and he has to tighten his thighs around his grip to keep from going right then and there. His body itches, and he feels the warmth wetness spread as it leaks through his boxers. It reaches to dampen his crotch in his hand, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” Gordolf is moving towards him. Sherlock is cursing in his head. “Are you sick? Is it the food?” His eyes settle on Sherlock’s crotch and suddenly the ruler’s face feels hot.

He runs.

“Sherlock!”

He tries doing long strides in order to cover more distance, but when he does, more spurts manage to escape. So he settles for smaller steps, but runs fast, pushing past servants in order to reach his destination.

He knew that if he ran for the washroom, everyone would know what he was doing. If he ran for his room, Gordolf may show up. He brushes past a startled Helena to turn the corner and land at his workshop..

One hand on his crotch with his knees turned in, he quickly punches in his passcode. He curses himself for picking such a long one, his fingers fumbling through four tries before he successfully types it in and falls through into his room.

The door closes and he goes down onto his knees, finally allowing himself to spread his legs. He shrugs off his coat, resting his hands on his thighs, before he sighs and lets go.

Sherlock lets out a strained moan as the piss comes flooding out. His crotch is already soaked, and his thighs join them as it splits off into two main channels, carving at his legs in braids. He watches with laboured breaths as it turns his pants into a darker brown, his fingers dipping under his leg pieces to feel the warm and damp cloth under his tips.

His boxers are now fully wet, and it makes them stick to his ass. He reaches a hand back to squeeze at it, marvelling at how quickly he had ruined them.

His crotch, unable to hold any more piss, starts dribbling, until a small puddle develops underneath him. Curious, he pushes on the flow, so that the droplets fill and fall faster, and he moves his hand from his ass to his crotch to pull his pants up, rubbing at the dampness. 

How much piss did he have in him? A puddle of yellow spreads out onto the floor of his workshop. It’s stark against the pristine cleanliness of the white tile, and he lets out a moan.

His thighs are wet and sticky, his pants dark. His knees wobble and shakily he sits down, pausing his pissing. When he’s settled, he spreads his legs again, resting his hands on his inner thighs before letting go again.

His eyes are stuck on his crotch as more dribbles out, filling up the puddle in front of him. His shins feel cold as they start to dry. Gosh, this was horrible. But he couldn’t deny his arousal as his stream began to die down. It felt so good, like finally letting go.

As he finishes, he finds himself rubbing at his crotch despite it all. Arousal makes his face hot, and it does not take too long for an orgasm to rush over him.

Hair messy and body shaking, he rests his head against the door. He breathes slowly, bringing his hand up to his chest. His pants stick to his skin as they dry.

“Lesson learned,” he tells himself, “No more pushing the body.”

**Author's Note:**

> why are sherlock fans into him pissing himself so much
> 
> anyways i dont have a private for this anymore so um yeah


End file.
